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I  have  been  reading  some  of  the  poems  this  evening,  and  find  them  rick^ 
sweet,  and  imaginative  in  such  a  degree  that  I  am  sorry  not  to  have  fresher 
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from  them.  I  was  conscious,  here  and  there,  of  a  delicacy  that  I  Jiardly 
dared  to  breathe  upon.  —  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE. 


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MERCEDES,  AND  LATER  LYRICS. 


THOMAS   BAILEY  ALDRICH 


MERCEDES,  AND   LATER 
LYRICS 


BOSTON 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

New  York  :    11   East  Seventeenth  Street 


1884 


Copyright,  1883, 
BY  T.  B.  ALDRICH. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


35-3 


CONTENTS. 


MEKCEDES.  PAGE 

I.  The  Bivouac 11 

II.  At  Arguano 28 

ON  LYNN  TEBRACE,  ETC. 

On  Lynn  Terrace 59 

The  Jew's  Gift 63 

Pepita 68 

Bayard  Taylor 72 

INTAGLIOS. 

Intaglios 77 

Epics  and  Lyrics 79 

Heredity 80 

Myrtilla 82 

On  her  Blushing 82 

One  Woman 83 

Prescience 84 

Epigram 86 


Yl  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Preacher         ........  87 

Comedy 89 

Kriss  Kringle 91 

Discipline          .        .        •        •         •        •        .        •  92 

Appreciation        .                 94 

The  Voice  of  the  Sea 95 

Knowledge 97 

In  the  Belfry  of  the  Nieuwe  Kerk    ...  98 

Apparitions 100 

Realism 101 

The  Bells  at  Midnight 102 

EPILOGUE. 

At  Twoscore 107 


MERCEDES. 


Ax  incident  related  in  the  Memoirs  of  the  Duchess 
d'Abrantes  suggested  this  sketch.  The  love  story 
which  forms  the  basis  of  the  plot,  the  characterization 
of  the  persons  represented  in  the  episode,  and  its 
dramatic  action  are  the  writer's. 


CHARACTERS. 

ACHILLE  LOUVOIS. 

LABOISSIERE. 

PADRE  JOSEF. 

MERCEDES. 

URSULA. 

SERGEANT  &  SOLDIERS. 

SCENE  :  SPAIN.       PERIOD  :  1810. 


MERCEDES. 


ACT  I. 


A  detachment  of  French  troops  bivouacked  on  the  edge  of  the  forest  of 
Corelleda.  — A  sentinel  is  seen  on  the  cliffs  overhanging  the  camp. — 
The  guard  is  relieved  in  dumb-show  as  the  dialogue  progresses.  —  Lou- 
vois  and  Laboissiere,  wrapped  in  great-coats,  are  seated  by  a  smouldering 
fire  of  brushwood  in  the  foreground.  —  Starlight. 


SCENE  I, 

LOUVOIS,  LABOISSIERE. 

LABOISSI£RK 
Louvois ! 

LOUVOIS,  starting  from  a  reverie. 

Eh?     What  is  it?     I  must  have  slept. 

LABOISSlfcRK 

With  eyes  staring  at  nothing,  like  an  Egyp 
tian  idol!     This  is  not  amusing.     You  are  as 


12  MERCEDES. 

gloomy  to-night  as  an  undertaker  out  of  em 
ployment. 

LOUVOIS. 

Say,  rather,  an  executioner  who  loathes  his 
trade.  No,  I  was  not  asleep.  I  cannot  sleep 
with  this  business  on  my  conscience. 

LABOISSltiRE. 

In  affairs  like  this,  conscience  goes  to  the 
rear — with  the  sick  and  wounded. 

LOUVOIS. 

One  may  be  forgiven,  or  can  forgive  himself, 
many  a  cruel  thing  done  in  the  heat  of  battle ; 
but  to  steal  upon  a  defenseless  village,  and  in 
cold  blood  sabre  old  men,  women,  and  children 
— that  revolts  me. 

LABOISSltiRE. 

What  must  be,  must  be. 

LOUVOIS. 
Yes — the  poor  wretches. 


MERCEDES.  1 3 

LABOISSlfcRE. 

The  orders  are  — 

LOUVOIS. 
Every  soul! 

LABOISSI£RE. 

They  have  brought  it  upon  themselves,  if 
that  comforts  them.  Every  defile  in  these  in 
fernal  mountains  bristles  with  carabines ;  every 
village  gives  shelter  or  warning  to  the  guerril 
las.  The  army  is  being  decimated  by  assas 
sination.  It  is  the  same  ghastly  story  through 
out  Castile  and  Estreinadura.  After  we  have 
taken  a  town  we  lose  more  men  than  it  cost  us 
to  storm  it.  I  would  rather  look  into  the  throat 
of  a  battery  at  forty  paces  than  attempt  to  pass 
through  certain  streets  in  Madrid  or  Burgos 
after  night-fall.  You  go  in  at  one  end,  but, 
diantre  !  you  don't  come  out  at  the  other. 

LOUVOIS. 

What  would  you  have  ?  It  is  life  or  death 
with  these  people. 


14  MERCEDES. 

LABOTSSIERE. 

I  would  have  them  fight  like  Christians. 
Poisoning  water-courses  is  not  fighting,  and  as 
sassination  is  not  war.  Some  such  blow  as  we 
are  about  to  strike  is  the  sort  of  rude  surgery 
the  case  demands. 

LOUVOIS. 

Certainly  the  French  army  on  the  Peninsula 
is  in  a  desperate  strait.  The  men  are  worn 
out  contending  against  shadows,  and  disheart 
ened  by  victories  that  prove  more  disastrous 
than  defeats  in  other  lands. 

LABOISSIERE. 

It  is  the  devil's  own  country.  The  very 
birds  here  have  no  song.1  Even  the  cigars  are 
damnable.  Will  you  have  one  ? 

LOUVOIS. 
Thanks,  no. 

LABOISSIERE,  after  a  pause. 

This  village  of  Arguano  which  we  are  to  dis- 

1  Except  in  a  few  provinces,  singing-birds  are  rare  in  Spain,  owing  to 
the  absence  of  woodland. 


MERCEDES.  15 

cipline,  as   the  brave  Junot  would  say,   is  it 
much  of  a  village  ? 

LOUVOIS. 

No ;  an  insignificant  hamlet  —  one  wide  calle 
with  a  zigzag  line  of  stucco  houses  on  each 
side;  a  posada,  and  a  forlorn  chapel  standing 
like  an  overgrown  tombstone  in  the  middle  of 
the  cemetery.  In  the  market-place,  three  with 
ered  olive  trees.  On  a  hilltop  overlooking  all, 
a  windmill  of  the  time  of  Don  Quixote.  In 
brief,  the  regulation  Spanish  village. 

LABOISSI&RE. 

You  have  been  there,  then  ?  —  with  your 
three  withered  olive  trees ! 

LOUVOIS,  slowly. 

Yes,  I  have  been  there.  .  .  . 

LABOISSIERE,  aside. 

He  has  that  same  odd  look  in  his  eyes  which 
has  puzzled  me  these  two  days.  (Aloud.)  If  I 
have  touched  a  wrong  chord,  pardon !  You 
have  unpleasant  associations  with  the  place. 


16  MEECEDES. 

LOUVOIS. 

I  ?  O,  no ;  on  the  contrary  I  have  none  but 
agreeable  memories  of  Arguano.  I  was  quar 
tered  there,  or,  rather,  in  the  neighborhood,  for 
several  weeks  a  year  or  two  ago.  I  was  recov 
ering  from  a  wound  at  the  time,  and  the  air  of 
that  valley  did  me  better  service  than  a  pla 
toon  of  surgeons.  Then  the  villagers  were  sim 
ple,  honest  folk  —  for  Spaniards.  Indeed,  they 
were  kindly  folk.  I  remember  the  old  padre, 
he  was  not  half  a  bad  fellow,  though  I  have  no 
love  for  the  long-gowns.  With  his  scant  black 
soutane,  and  his  thin  white  hair  brushed  be 
hind  his  ears  under  a  skull-cap,  he  somehow 
reminded  me  of  my  old  mother  in  Languedoc, 
and  we  were  good  comrades.  We  used  now 
and  then  to  empty  a  bottle  of  Valdepenas  to 
gether  in  the  shady  posada  garden.  The  na 
tive  wine  here,  when  you  get  it  pure,  betters 
expectation. 

LABOISSlftRE. 

Why,  that  was  consorting  with  the  enemy  ! 
The  Church  is  our  deadliest  foe  now.  Since 


MERCEDES.  17 

the  bull  of  Pius  VII.,  excommunicating  the 
Emperor,  we  all  are  heretical  dogs  in  Spanish 
eyes.  His  Holiness  has  made  murder  a  short 
cut  to  heaven.1  By  poniarding  or  poisoning  a 
Frenchman,  these  fanatics  fancy  that  they  in 
sure  their  infinitesimal  souls. 

LOUVOIS. 

Yes,  they  believe  that ;  yet  when  all  is  said, 
I  have  no  great  thirst  for  this  poor  padre's 
blood.  If  the  mare'chal  had  only  turned  over 
to  me  some  other  village  !  No  —  I  do  not  mean 
what  I  say.  Since  the  work  was  to  be  done,  it 
was  better  I  should  do  it.  There  's  a  fatality 
in  sending  me  to  Arguano.  Remember  that. 
From  the  moment  the  order  came  from  head 
quarters  I  have  had  such  a  heaviness  here. 
(Pauses.)  Awhile  ago,  in  a  half  doze,  I  dreamed 

i  In  Andalusia,  and  in  fact  throughout  Spain  at  that  period,  the 
priests  taught  the  children  a  catechism  of  which  this  is  a  specimen  : 
"  How  many  Emperors  of  the  French  are  there?"  "  One  actually,  in 
three  deceiving  persons.-  —  "  What  are  they  called  ?  v  "  Napoleon, 
Murat,  and  Manuel  Godoy,  Prince  of  the  Peace."  —  ';  Which  is  the  most 
wicked?"  "They  are  all  equally  so. '•  —  "What  are  the  French?7' 
•'Apostate  Christians  turned  heretics. " — "What  punishment  does  a 
Spaniard  deserve  who  fails  in  his  duty  ? :'  "  The  death  and  infamy  of  a 
traitor."  —  "  Is  it  a  sin  to  kill  a  Frenchman  ?  -  "  No,  my  father  ;  heaven 
is  gained  by  killing  one  of  these  heretical  dogs.;! 

a 


18  MERCEDES. 

of  cutting  down  this  harmless  old  priest  who 
had  come  to  me  to  beg  mercy  for  the  women 
and  children.  I  cut  him  across  the  face,  La- 
boissiere  !  I  saw  him  still  smiling,  with  his  lip 
slashed  in  two.  The  irony  of  it !  When  I 
think  of  that  smile  I  am  tempted  to  break  my 
sword  over  my  knee,  and  throw  myself  into  the 
ravine  yonder. 

LABOISSLfcRE,  aside. 

This  is  the  man  who  got  the  cross  for  sa 
bring  three  gunners  in  the  trench  at  Saragossa ! 
It  is  droll  he  should  be  so  moved  by  the  idea 
of  killing  a  beggarly  old  Jesuit  more  or  less. 
(Aioud.)  Bah !  it  was  only  a  dream,  voild  tout  — 
one  of  those  villainous  nightmares  which  run 
wild  over  these  hills.  I  have  been  kicked  by 
them  myself  many  a  time.  What,  the  devil ! 
dreams  always  go  by  contraries ;  in  which  case 
you  will  have  the  satisfaction  of  being  knocked 
on  the  head  by  the  venerable  padre  —  and  so 
quits.  It  may  come  to  that.  Who  knows? 
We  are  surrounded  by  spies  ;  I  would  wager  a 
week's  rations  that  Arguano  is  prepared  for  us. 


MERCEDES.  19 

LOUVOIS. 

If  I  thought  that !  An  assault  with  resist 
ance  would  cover  all.  Yes,  yes  —  the  spies. 
They  must  be  aware  of  our  destination  and 
purpose.  A  movement  such  as  this  could  not 
have  been  made  unobserved.  (Abruptly.)  Labois- 

siere ! 

LABOISSI£RE. 

Well? 

LOUVOIS. 

There  was  a  certain  girl  at  Arguano,  a 
niece  or  god-daughter  to  the  old  padre  —  a 
brave  girl. 

LABOISSlfcRE. 

Ah  —  so  ?  Come  now,  confess,  my  captain, 
it  was  the  sobrina,  and  not  the  old  priest,  you 
struck  down  in  your  dream. 

LOUVOIS. 
Yes,  that  was  it.     How  did  you  know  ? 

LABOISSIEKE. 

By  instinct  and  observation.  There  is  al 
ways  a  woman  at  the  bottom  of  everything. 
You  have  only  to  go  deep  enough. 


20  MERCEDES. 

LOUVOIS. 

This  girl  troubles  me.  I  was  ordered  from 
Arguano  without  an  instant's  warning  —  at 
midnight  —  between  two  breaths,  as  it  were. 
Then  communication  with  the  place  was  cut 
off.  ...  I  have  never  heard  word  of  her  since. 

LABOISSlfcKE. 

So  ?     Did  you  love  her  ? 

LOUVOIS. 
I  have  not  said  that. 

LABOISSlfcRE. 

Speak  your  thought,  and  say  it.  I  ever 
loved  a  love-story,  when  it  ran  as  clear  as  a 
trout-brook  and  had  the  right  heart-leaps  in  it. 
With  this  wind  sighing  in  the  tree-tops,  and 
these  heavy  stars  drooping  over  us,  it  is  the 
very  place  and  hour  for  a  bit  of  romance. 
Come,  now. 

LOUVOIS. 
It  was  all  of  a  romance. 


MERCEDES.  21 

LABOISSlfcRE. 

I   knew   it  !     I   will   begin   for    you :    You 

loved  her. 

LOUVOIS. 

Yes,  I  loved  her !  It  was  the  good  God  that 
sent  her  to  nay  bedside.  She  nursed  me  day 
and  night.  She  brought  me  back  to  life.  .  . 
I  know  not  how  it  happened  ;  the  events  have 
no  sequence  in  my  memory.  I  had  been 
wounded ;  I  dropped  from  the  saddle  as  we  en 
tered  the  village,  and  was  carried  for  dead 
into  one  of  the  huts.  Then  the  fever  took  me. 
.  .  .  Day  after  day  I  plunged  from  one  black 
abyss  into  another,  my  wits  quite  gone.  At 
odd  intervals  I  was  conscious  of  some  one  bend 
ing  over  me.  Now  it  seemed  to  be  a  demon, 
and  now  a  white-hooded  sister  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  at  Paris.  Oftener  it  was  that  madonna 
above  the  altar  in  the  old  mosque  at  Cordova. 
Such  strange  fancies  take  men  with  gunshot 
wounds !  One  night  I  awoke  in  my  senses,  and 
there  she  sat,  with  her  fathomless  eyes  fixed 
upon  my  face,  like  a  statue  of  pity.  You  know 
those  narrow,  melting  eyes  these  women  have, 
with  a  dash  of  Arab  fire  in  them. 


22  MEKCEDES. 

LABOISSIERE. 

Know  them  ?     Sacrebleu ! 

LOUVOIS. 

The  first  time  I  walked  out  she  led  me  by 
the  hand,  I  was  so  very  weak,  like  a  little  child 
learning  to  walk.  It  was  spring,  the  skies  were 
blue,  the  almonds  were  in  blossom,  the  air  was 
like  wine.  Great  heaven !  how  beautiful  and 
fresh  the  world  was,  as  if  God  had  just  made 
it!  From  time  to  time  I  leaned  upon  her 
shoulder,  not  thinking  of  her.  .  .  .  Later  I 
came  to  know  her  —  a  saint  in  disguise,  a  peas 
ant-girl  with  the  instincts  of  a  duchess  ! 

LABOISSIERE. 

They  are  always  like  that,  saints  and  duch 
esses  —  by  brevet !  I  fell  in  with  her  own 
sister  at  Barcelona.  Look  you  —  braids  of  pur 
ple-black  hair  and  the  complexion  of  a  newly- 
minted  napoleon  !  I  forget  her  name.  (Knitting 
his  brows.)  Paquita  .  .  .  Mariquita?  It  was 
something-quita,  but  no  matter. 


MERCEDES.  23 

LOUYOIS. 

How  it  all  comes  back  to  me !  The  wild 
footpaths  in  the  haunted  forest  of  Covelleda ; 
the  broken  Moorish  water-tank,  in  the  plaza, 
against  which  we  leaned  to  watch  the  gypsy 
dances ;  the  worn  stone-step  of  the  cottage, 
where  we  sat  of  evenings  with  guitar  and  cig 
arette  !  What  simple  things  make  a  man  for 
get  that  his  grave  lies  in  front  of  him !  (Pauses.) 
There  was  a  lover,  a  contrabandista,  or  some 
thing —  a  fellow  who  might  have  played  the 
spadassin  in  one  of  Lope  de  Vega's  cloak-and- 
dagger  comedies.  The  gloom  of  the  lad,  fin 
gering  his  stiletto-hilt !  Presently  she  sent 
him  to  the  right-about,  him  and  his  scowls  — 
the  poor  devil. 

LABOISSEfcRE. 

Oh,  a  very  bad  case  ! 

LOUVOIS. 

I  would  not  have  any  hurt  befall  that  girl, 
Laboissiere ! 

LABOISSlftRR. 

Surely. 


24  MEECEDES. 

LOUVOIS. 

And  there  's  no  human  way  to  warn  her  of 
her  danger ! 

LABOISSltiRE. 

To  warn  her  would  be  to  warn  the  village  — 
and  defeat  our  end.  However,  no  French  mes 
senger  could  reach  the  place  alive. 

LOUVOIS. 

And  no  other  is  possible.  Now  you  under 
stand  my  misery.  I  am  ready  to  go  mad  ! 

LABOISSlfcRE. 

You  take  the  thing  too  seriously.  Nothing 
ever  is  so  bad  as  it  looks,  except  a  Spanish  ra- 
gotit.  After  all,  it  is  not  likely  that  a  single 
soul  is  left  in  Arguano.  The  very  leaves  of 
this  dismal  forest  are  lips  that  whisper  of  our 
movements.  The  villagers  have  doubtless 
made  off  with  that  fine  store  of  grain  and 
aguardiente  we  so  sorely  stand  in  need  of,  and 
a  score  or  two  of  the  brigands  are  probably 
lying  in  wait  for  us  in  some  narrow  canon. 


MERCEDES.  25 

LOUVOIS 


God  will  it  so  ! 


LABOISSLfcRE. 

Louvois,  if  the  girl  is  at  Arguano,  not  a  hair 
of  her  head  shall  be  harmed,  though  I  am  shot 
for  it  when  we  get  back  to  Burgos  ! 

LOUVOIS. 

You  are  a  brave  soul,  Laboissiere  !  Your 
words  have  lifted  a  weight  from  my  bosom. 

LABOISSEfcRE. 

Are  we  not  comrades,  we  who  have  fought 
side  by  side  these  six  months  and  lain  together 
night  after  night  with  this  blue  arch  for  our 
tent-roof?  Dismiss  your  anxiety.  What  is 
that  Gascogne  proverb  ?  —  "  We  suffer  most 
from  the  ills  that  never  happen."  Let  us  get 
some  rest ;  we  have  had  a  rude  day.  .  .  .  See, 
the  stars  have  doubled  their  pickets  out  there 

to  the  westward. 

LOUVOIS. 

You  are  right ;  we  should  sleep.  We  march 
at  daybreak.  Good-night. 


26  MERCEDES. 

LABOISSIERE. 

Good-night,  and  vive  la  France  I 

LOUVOIS. 
Vive  FEmpe'reur ! 

LABOISSIERE  walks  away  humming : 

"  Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  ! " 

LOUVOIS,  looking  after  him. 

There  goes  a  light  heart.     But  mine   .  .   . 
mine  is  as  heavy  as  lead. 

SCENE  II. 

LYEICAL  INTERLUDE. 
SOLDI  EES'   SONQ. 

While  this  is  being  sung  behind  the  scenes  the  guard  is  relieved  on  the 
cliffs.  Louvois  wraps  his  cloak  around  him  and  falls  into  a  troubled 
sleep. 

THE  camp  is  hushed  ;  the  fires  burn  low  ; 
Like  ghosts  the  sentries  come  and  go  : 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  upon  the  height 
A  keen  drawn  sabre  glimmers  white. 


MERCEDES.  27 

Swiftly  the  midnight  steals  away  — 
Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  ! 

Perchance  into  your  dream  shall  come 
Visions  of  love  or  thoughts  of  home  ; 
The  furtive  night  wind,  hurrying  by, 
Shall  kiss  away  the  half-breathed  sigh, 
And  softly  whispering,  seem  to  say, 
Reposez-vous^  bons  chevaliers! 

Through  star-lit  dusk  and  shimmering  dew 
It  is  your  lady  comes  to  you ! 
Delphine,  Lisette,  Annette  —  who  knows 
By  what  sweet  wayward  name  she  goes  ? 
Wrapped  in  white  arms  till  break  of  day, 
Reposez-vous,  bons  chevaliers  ! 


ACT  II. 


Morning.  — The  interior  of  a  stone  hut  in  Arguano.  — Through  the  door 
opening  upon  the  calle  are  seen  piles  of  Indian  corn,  sheaves  of  wheat, 
and  loaves  of  bread  partly  consumed.  —  Empty  wine-skins  are  scattered 
here  and  there  among  the  cinders.  —  In  one  corner  of  the  chamber, 
which  is  low-studded  but  spacious,  an  old  woman,  propped  up  with 
pillows,  is  sitting  on  a  pallet  and  crooning  to  herself.  — At  the  left,  a 
settle  stands  against  the  wall.  —  In  the  centre  of  the  room  a  child  lies 
asleep  in  a  cradle.  —  Mercedes.  —  Padre  Jos6f  entering  abruptly. 


SCENE  I. 

MERCEDES,   Padre  JOSEF,   then  URSULA. 
Padre  JOSEF. 

Mercedes  !  daughter  !  are  you  mad  to  linger 
so? 

MERCEDES. 

Nay,  father,  it  is  you  who  are  mad  to  come 
back. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

We  were  nearly  a  mile  from  the  village 
when  I  missed  you  and  the  child.  I  had 
stopped  at  your  cottage,  and  found  no  one.  I 
thought  you  were  with  those  who  had  started 
at  sunrise. 


MERCEDES.  29 

MERCEDES. 

Nay,  I  brought  Chiquita  here  last  night 
when  I  heard  the  French  were  coming. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

Quick,  Mercedes !  there  is  not  an  instant  to 
waste. 

MERCEDES. 

Then  hasten,  Padre  Jose*f,  while  there  is  yet 

time .  (Pushes  him  towards  the  door. ) 

Padre  JOSEP. 

And  you,  child  ? 

MERCEDES. 

I  shall  stay. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

Listen  to  her,  Sainted  Virgin  !  she  will  stay, 
and  the  French  bloodhounds  at  our  very  heels  ! 

MERCEDES,  glancing  at  Ursula. 

Could  I  leave  old  Ursula,  and  she  not  able 
to  lift  foot  ?  Think  you  —  my  own  flesh  and 
blood! 


30  MERCEDES. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

Ah,  cielo  !  true.  They  have  forgotten  her, 
the  cowards !  and  now  it  is  too  late.  God 
willed  it  —  santificado  sea  tu  nombre  !  (Hesitates.) 
Mercedes,  Ursula  is  old  —  very  old  ;  the  better 
part  of  her  is  already  dead.  See  how  she 
laughs  and  mumbles  to  herself,  and  knows 
naught  of  what  is  passing. 

MERCEDES. 

The  poor  grandmother !   she  thinks  it  is  a 

Saint's  day.  (Seats  herself  on  the  settle.) 

Padre  JOSEF. 

What  is  life  or  death  to  her  whose  soul  is 
otherwhere  ?  What  is  a  second  more  or  less  to 
the  leaf  that  clings  to  a  shrunken  bough  ?  But 
you,  Mercedes,  the  long  summer  smiles  for  such 
as  you.  Think  of  yourself,  think  of  Chiquita. 
Come  with  me,  child,  come ! 

URSULA. 

Ay,  ay,  go  with  the  good  padre,  dear.  There 
is  dancing  on  the  plaza.  The  gitanos  are  there, 


MERCEDES.  31 

mayhap.  I  hear  the  music.  I  had  ever  an  ear 
for  tamboriiies  and  castanets.  When  I  was  a 
slip  of  a  girl  I  used  to  foot  it  with  the  best  in 
the  cachuca  and  the  bolera.  I  was  a  merry 
jade,  Mercedes  —  a  merry  jade.  Wear  your 
broidered  garters,  dear. 

MERCEDES. 

She  hears  music.  (Listens.)  No.  Her  mind 
wanders  strangely  to-day,  now  here,  now  there. 
The  gray  spirits  are  with  her.  (TO  Ursula  gently.) 
No,  grandmother,  I  came  to  stay  with  you,  I 
and  Chiquita. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

You  are  mad,  Mercedes.  They  will  murder 
you  all. 

MERCEDES. 

They  will  not  have  the  heart  to  harm  Chi 
quita,  nor  me,  perchance,  for  her  sake. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

They  have  no  hearts,  these  Frenchmen.  Ah, 
Mercedes,  do  you  not  know  better  than  most 
that  a  Frenchman  has  no  heart? 


32  MERCEDES. 

MERCEDES,  hastily. 

I  know  nothing.  I  shall  stay.  Is  life  so 
sweet  to  me  ?  Go,  Padre  Jose'f .  What  could 
save  you  if  they  found  you  here  ?  Not  your 
priest's  gown. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

You  will  follow,  my  daughter  ? 

MERCEDES. 

No. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

I  beseech  you ! 

MERCEDES. 

No. 

Padre  JOSEF. 

Then  you  are  lost ! 

MERCEDES. 

Nay,  padrino,  God  is  everywhere.  Have  you 
not  yourself  said  it?  Lay  your  hands  for  a 
moment  on  my  head,  as  you  used  to  do  when  I 
was  a  little  child,  and  go  —  go ! 

Padre  JOSEF. 

Thou  wert  ever  a  willful  girl,  Mercedes. 


MERCEDES.  33 

MERCEDES. 

O,  say  not  so ;  but  quick  —  your  blessing, 
quick ! 

Padre  JOSEF. 

A  Dios.  .  .  . 

He  makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  Mercedes'  forehead,  and  slowly  turns 
away.  Mercedes  rises,  follows  him  to  the  door,  and  looks  after  him 
with  tears  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  returns  to  the  middle  of  the  room, 
and  sits  on  a  low  stool  beside  the  cradle. 


II. 

MERCEDES,   URSULA. 
URSULA,  after  a  silence. 

Has  he  gone,  the  good  padre  ? 

MERCEDES. 

Yes,  dear  soul. 

URSULA,  reflectively. 

He  was  your  uncle  once. 

MERCEDES. 

Once  ?     Yes,  and  always.     How  you  speak ! 

3 


34  MERCEDES. 

URSULA. 

He  is  not  gay  any  more,  the  good  padre.  He 
is  getting  old  ...  getting  old. 

MERCEDES. 

To  hear  her !  and  she  eighty  years  last  San 
Miguel's  day ! 

URSULA. 

What  day  is  it  ? 

MERCEDES,  laying  one  finger  on  her  lips. 

Hist !     Chiquita  is  waking. 

URSULA,  querulously. 

Hist  ?  Nay,  I  will  say  my  say  in  spite  of  all. 
Hist  ?  God  save  us !  who  taught  thee  to  say 
hist  to  thy  elders  ?  Ay,  ay,  who  taught  thee  ? 
.  .  .  What  day  is  it  ? 

MERCEDES,  aside. 

How  sharp  she  is  awhiles  !  (Aloud.)  Pardon, 
pardon!  Here  is  little  Chiquita,  with  both 
eyes  wide  open,  to  help  me  beg  thy  forgiveness. 
(Takes  up  the  cMid.)  See,  she  has  a  smile  for  grand- 


MERCEDES.  35 

mother  .  .  .  Ah,  no,  little  one,  I  have  no  milk 
for  thee;  the  trouble  has  taken  it  all.  Nay, 
cry  not,  dainty,  or  that  will  break  my  heart. 

URSULA. 

Sing  to  her,  nieta.     What  is  it  you  sing  that 
always  hushes  her  ?     '  T  is  gone  from  me. 

MERCEDES. 

I  know  not. 

URSULA, 

Bethink  thee. 

MERCEDES. 

I  cannot.     Ah  —  the  rhyme  of  The  Three 
Little  White  Teeth  ? 

URSULA,  clapping  her  hands. 

Ay,  ay,  that  is  it ! 

MERCEDES  rocks  the  child,  and  sings  : 

Who  is  it  opens  her  blue  bright  eye, 
Bright  as  the  sea  and  blue  as  the  sky  ?  — 
Chiquita ! 


36  MERCEDES. 

Who  has  the  smile  that  comes  and  goes 
Like  sunshine  over  her  mouth's  red  rose  ? 
Muchachita  ! 

What  is  the  softest  laughter  heard, 
Gurgle  of  brook  or  trill  of  bird, 

Chiquita  ? 

Nay,  't  is  thy  laughter  makes  the  rill 
Hush  its  voice  and  the  bird  be  still, 

Muchachita! 

Ah,  little  flower-hand  on  my  breast, 
How  it  soothes  me  and  gives  me  rest ! 

Chiquita ! 

What  is  the  sweetest  sight  I  know  ? 
Three  little  white  teeth  in  a  row, 
Three  little  white  teeth  in  a  row, 

Muchachita  ! 


As  Mercedes  finishes  the  song  a  roll  of  drums  is  heard  in  the  calle.  At 
the  first  tap  she  starts  and  listens  intently,  then  assumes  a  stolid  air. 
The  sound  approaches  the  door  and  suddenly  ceases. 


MEKCEDES.  37 

SCEXE   III. 

LABOISSIERE,  MERCEDES,  then  SOLDIERS. 

LABOISSIERE,  outside. 

A  sergeant  and  two  men  to  follow  me ! 
(Mutters.)  Curse  me  if  there  is  so  much  as  a 
mouse  left  in  the  whole  village.  Not  a  drop  of 
wine,  and  the  bread  burnt  to  a  crisp  —  the  sc£- 

ISratS !      (Appears   at    the   threshold.)       Hulloa  !    what    is 

this  ?  An  old  woman  and  a  young  one  —  an 
Andalusian  by  the  arch  of  her  instep  and  the 
length  of  her  eyelashes  !  (in  Spanish.)  Girl,  what 
are  you  doing  here  ? 

MERCEDES,  in  French. 

Where  should  I  be,  monsieur  ? 

LABOISSIERE. 

You  speak  French? 

MERCEDES. 

Caramba  !  since  you  speak  Spanish. 


38  MERCEDES. 

LABOISSIEBE. 

It  was  out  of  politeness.  But  talk  your  own 
jargon  —  it  is  a  language  that  turns  to  honey 
on  the  tongue  of  a  pretty  woman.  (Aside.)  It 
was  my  luck  to  unearth  the  only  woman  in  the 
place !  The  captain's  white  blackbird  has 
flown,  bag  and  baggage,  thank  Heaven  !  Poor 
Louvois,  what  a  grim  face  he  made  over  the 
empty  nest !  (Aloud.)  Your  neighbors  have 
gone.  Why  are  you  not  with  them? 

MERCEDES,  pointing  to  Ursula. 

It  is  my  grandmother,  senor;  she  is  para 
lyzed. 

LA  BOISSIERE. 

'  So?     You  could  not  carry  her  off,  and  you 
remained  ? 

MERCEDES. 

Precisely. 

LABOISSIERE. 

That  was  like  a  brave  girl.  (Touching  his  cap.)  I 
salute  valor  whenever  I  meet  it.  Why  have 
all  the  villagers  fled  ? 


MERCEDES.  39 

MERCEDES. 

Did  they  wish  to  be  massacred  ? 

LABOISSIERE,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

And  you  ? 

MERCEDES. 

It  would  be  too  much  glory  for  a  hundred 
and  eighty  French  soldiers  to  kill  one  poor 
peasant  girl.  And  then  to  come  so  far ! 

LABOISSIERE,  aside. 

She  knows  our  very  numbers,  the  fox  !  How 
she  shows  her  teeth ! 

MERCEDES. 

Besides,  senor,  one  can  die  but  once. 

LABOISSIERE. 

That  is  often  enough.  —  Why  did  your  peo 
ple  waste  the  bread  and  wine  ? 

MERCEDES. 

That  yours  might  neither  eat  the  one  nor 
drink  the  other.  We  do  not  store  food  for  our 
enemies. 


40  MEECEDES. 

LABOISSIERE. 

They  could  not  take  away  the  provisions,  so 
they  destroyed  them  ? 

MERCEDES,  mockingly. 

Nothing  escapes  you ! 

LABOISSIERE. 

Is  that  your  child  ? 

MERCEDES. 

Yes,  the  hija  is  mine. 

LABOISSIERE. 

Where  is  your  husband  —  with  the  brigands 
yonder  ? 

MERCEDES. 

My  husband  ? 

LABOISSIERE. 

Your  lover,  then. 

MERCEDES. 

I  have  no  lover.     My  husband  is  dead. 


MERCEDES.  41 

LABOISSIERE. 

I  think  you  are  lying  now.  He's  a  guer 
rilla. 

MERCEDES. 

If  he  were  I  should  not  deny  it.  What 
Spanish  woman  would  rest  her  cheek  upon  the 
bosom  that  has  not  a  carabine  pressed  against 
it  this  day?  It  were  better  to  be  a  soldier's 
widow  than  a  coward's  wife. 

LABOISSIERE,  aside. 

The  little  demon !  But  she  is  ravishing ! 
She  would  have  upset  St.  Anthony,  this  one  — 
if  he  had  belonged  to  the  Second  Chasseurs ! 
What  is  to  be  done  ?  Theoretically,  I  am  to 
pass  my  sword  through  her  body ;  practically, 
I  shall  make  love  to  her  in  ten  minutes  more, 
though  her  readiness  to  become  a  widow  is  not 
altogether  pleasing!  (Aloud.)  Here,  sergeant, 
go  report  this  matter  to  the  captain.  He  is  in 
the  posada  at  the  farther  end  of  the  square. 

Exit  sergeant.  Shouts  of  exultation  and  laughter  are  heard  in  the  calle, 
and  presently  three  or  four  soldiers  enter  bearing  several  hams  and  a 
skin  of  wine. 

1st  SOLDIER. 

Voila,  lieutenant ! 


42  MERCEDES. 

LABOISSIERE. 

Where  did  you  get  that  ? 

2d  SOLDIER. 

In  a  cellar  hard  by,  hidden  under  some 
rushes. 

3d  SOLDIER. 

There  are  five  more  skins  of  wine  like  this 
jolly  fellow  in  his  leather  jacket.  Pray  order 
a  division  of  the  booty,  my  lieutenant,  for  we 
are  as  dry  as  herrings  in  a  box. 

LABOISSIERE. 

A  moment,  my  braves.  (Looks  at  Mercedes  signifi 
cantly.)  Woman,  is  that  wine  good  ? 

MERCEDES. 

The  vintage  was  poor  this  year,  seiior. 

LABOISSIERE. 

I  mean  —  is  that  wine  good  for  a  French 
man  to  drink  ? 

MERCEDES. 

Why  not,  senor  ? 


MEBCEDES.  43 

LABOISSIERE,  sternly. 

Yes  or  no  ? 

MERCEDES. 

Yes. 

LABOISSIERE. 

Why  was  it  not  served  like  the  rest,  then  ? 

MERCEDES. 

They  hid  a  few  skins,  thinking  to  come  back 
for  it  when  you  were  gone.  An  ill  thing  does 
not  last  forever. 

LABOISSIERE. 

Open  it,  someone,  and  fetch  me  a  glass.  (TO 
Mercedes.)  You  will  drink  this. 

MERCEDES,  coldly. 

When  I  am  thirsty  I  drink. 

LABOISSIERE. 

Pardieu !  this  time  you  shall  drink  because 
/am  thirsty. 

MERCEDES. 

As  you  will.     (Empties  the  glass.)     To  the  King  ! 


44  MEECEDES. 

LABOISSIERE. 

That  was  an  impudent  toast.  I  would  have 
preferred  the  Emperor  or  even  Godoy ;  but  no 
matter  —  each  after  his  kind.  To  whom  will 
the  small-bones  drink  ? 

MERCEDES. 

The  child,  senor  ? 

LABOISSIERE. 

Yes,  the  child;  she  is  pale  and  sickly-look 
ing  ;  a  draught  will  do  her  no  harm.  All  the 
same  she  will  grow  up  and  make  some  man 
wretched. 

MERCEDES. 

But  senor  .  .  . 

LABOISSIERE. 

Do  you  hear  ? 

MERCEDES. 

But  Chiquita,  senor  —  she  is  so  little,  only 
thirteen  months  old,  and  the  wine  is  strong ! 


MEECEDES.  45 

LABOISSIERE. 

She  shall  drink. 

MERCEDES. 

No,  no ! 

LABOISSIERE. 

I  have  said  it,  sacr6  nom  — 

MERCEDES. 

Give  it  me,  then.  (Takes  the  glass  and  holds  it  to  the 
child's  lips.) 

LABOISSIERE,  watching  her  closely. 

Woman !  your  hand  trembles. 

MERCEDES. 

Nay,  it  is  Chiquita  swallows  so  fast.  See ! 
she  has  taken  it  all.  Ah,  senor,  it  is  a  sad 
thing  to  have  no  milk  for  the  little  one.  Are 
you  content  ? 

LABOISSIERE. 

Yes;  I  now  see  that  the  men  may  quench 
their  thirst  without  fear.  One  cannot  be  too 
cautious  in  this  hospitable  country !  Fall  to, 
my  children ;  but  first  a  glass  for  your  lieuten 
ant.  (Drinks.) 


46  MEKCEDES. 

URSULA. 

Ay,  ay,  the  young  forget  the  old  ...  forget 
the  old. 

LABOISSIERE,  laughing. 

Why,  the  depraved  old  sorceress !  But  she 
has  reason.  She  should  have  her  share.  Place 
aux  dames  !  A  cup,  somebody,  for  Madame  la 
Diablesse  ! 

MERCEDES,  aside. 

Jose'-Maria ! 

One  of  the  men  carries  wine  to  Ursula.  Mercedes  lays  the  child  in  the 
cradle,  and  sits  on  the  stool  beside  it,  resting  her  forehead  on  her  palms. 
Laboissiere  stretches  himself  on  the  settle.  Several  soldiers  come  in, 
and  fill  their  canteens  from  the  wine-skin.  They  stand  in  groups,  talk 
ing  in  undertones  among  themselves. 

LABOISSIERE  suddenly  starts  to  his  feet  and  dashes  his  glass  on  the 
floor. 

The  child  !  look  at  the  child  !  What  is  the 
matter  with  it  ?  It  turns  livid  —  it  is  dying  ! 
Comrades,  we  are  poisoned  ! 

MERCEDES  rises  hastily  and  throws  her  mantilla  over  the  cradle. 

Yes,  you  are  poisoned  !  Al  f uego  —  al  f uego 
—  todos  al  fuego ! l  You  to  perdition,  we  to 
heaven  ! 

1  To  the  flames  —  to  the  flames  —  all  of  you  to  the  flames ! 


MEKCEDES.  47 

LABOISSIERE. 

Quick,   some   of  you,  go  warn  the   others ! 

(Unsheathes  his  sword.)      I    end  where    I  OUght   to  have 

begun. 

MERCEDES  tearing  aside  her  neckerchief. 

Strike  here,  senor.  .  .  . 

LOUVOIS  enters,  and  halts  between  the  two  with  a  dazed  expression  ;  he 
glances  from  Laboissiere  to  the  woman,  and  catches  his  breath. 

Mercedes ! 

LABOISSIERE. 

Louvois,  we  are  dead  men  !  Beware  of  her, 
she  is  a  fiend !  Kill  her  without  a  word !  The 
drink  already  throttles  me  —  I  —  I  cannot 

breathe  here.  (Staggers  out,  followed  wildly  by  the  soldiers.) 

SCENE  IV. 

-       LOUVOIS,  MERCEDES. 
LOUYOIS. 

What  does  he  say  ? 

MERCEDES. 

You  heard  him. 


48  MEKCEDES. 

LOUVOIS. 
His  WOrds    have    no    Sense.       (Advancing  towards  her.) 

O,  why  are  you  in  this  place,  Mercedes  ? 

MERCEDES,  recoiling. 

I  am  here,  senor  — 

LOUVOIS. 
You  call  me  senor  —  you  shrink  from  me  — 

MERCEDES. 

Because  we  Spaniards  do  not  desert  those 
who  depend  upon  us. 

LOUVOIS. 

Is  that  a  reproach  ?  Ah,  cruel !  Have  you 
forgotten  — 

MERCEDES. 

I  have  forgotten  nothing.  I  have  had  cause 
to  remember  all.  I  remember,  among  the  rest, 
that  a  certain  wounded  French  officer  was 
cared  for  in  this  village  as  if  he  had  been  one 
of  our  own  people  —  and  now  he  returns  to 
massacre  us. 


MERCEDES.  49 

LOUVOIS. 

Mercedes ! 

MERCEDES. 

I  remember  the  morning,  nearly  two  years 
ago,  when  Padre  Jose'f  brought  me  your  letter. 
You  had  stolen  away  in  the  night  —  like  a  de 
serter  !  Ah,  that  letter  —  how  it  pierced  my 
heart,  and  yet  bade  me  live !  Because  it  was 
full  of  those  smooth  oaths  which  women  love,  I 
carried  it  in  my  bosom  for  a  twelvemonth; 
then  for  another  twelvemonth  I  carried  it  be 
cause  I  hoped  to  give  it  back  to  yOU.  (Takes  a  pa 
per  from  her  bosom.)  See,  senor,  what  slight  things 
Words  are  !  (Tears  the  paper  into  small  pieces  which  she  scatters 
at  his  feet.) 

LOUVOIS. 

Ah! 

MERCEDES. 

Sometimes  it  comforted  me  to  think  that  you 
were  dead.  You  were  only  false  ! 

LOUVOIS. 

It  is  you  who  have  broken  faith.  I  should 
be  the  last  of  men  if  I  had  deserted  you.  Why, 


50  MEKCEDES. 

even  a  dog  has  gratitude.     How  could  I  now 
look  you  in  the  face  ? 

MERCEDES. 

'T  was  an  ill  day  you  first  did  so ! 

LOUVOIS. 

Listen  to  me  ! 

MERCEDES. 

Too  many  times  I  have  listened.  Nay,  speak 
not ;  I  might  believe  you ! 

LOUVOIS. 

If  I  do  not  speak  the  truth,  despise  me  ! 
Since  I  left  Arguano  I  have  been  at  Lisbon, 
Irun,  Aranjuez,  among  the  mountains  —  I  know 
not  where,  but  ever  in  some  spot  whence  it  was 
impossible  to  get  you  tidings.  A  wall  of  fire 
and  steel  shut  me  from  you.  Thrice  I  have 
had  my  letters  brought  back  to  me  —  with  the 
bearers'  blood  upon  them  ;  thrice  I  have  trusted 
to  messengers  whose  treachery  I  now  discover. 
For  a  chance  bit  of  worthless  gold  they  broke 


MEKCEDES.  51 

the  seals,  and  wrecked  our  lives  !  Ah,  Merce 
des,  when  my  silence  troubled  you,  why  did 
you  not  read  the  old  letter  again?  If  the 
words  you  had  of  mine  lost  their  value,  it  was 
because  they  were  like  those  jewels  in  the  pa 
dre's  story,  which  changed  their  color  when  the 
wearer  proved  unfaithful. 

MERCEDES. 

Aquilles  ! 

LOUVOIS. 

Though  I  could  not  come  to  you  nor  send  to 
you,  I  never  dreamed  I  was  forgotten.  I  used 
to  say  to  myself :  "  A  week,  a  month,  a  year  — 
what  does  it  matter?  That  brown  girl  is  as 
true  as  steel  I  "  I  think  I  bore  a  charmed  life  in 
those  days;  I  grew  to  believe  that  neither 
sword  nor  bullet  could  touch  me  until  I  held 

yOU  in  my  arms  again.  (The  girl  stands  with  her  hands 
crossed  upon  her  bosom  and  looks  at  him  with  a  growing  light  in  her 

eyes.)  It  was  the  day  before  yesterday  that  our 
brigade  returned  to  Burgos  —  at  last !  at  last ! 
O,  love,  my  eyes  were  hungry  for  you !  Then 
that  dreadful  order  came.  Arguano  had  been 


52  MEECEDES. 

to  me  what  Mecca  is  to  the  Mohammedan  —  a 
shrine  to  be  reached  through  toil  and  thirst  and 
death.  O,  what  a  grim  freak  it  was  of  fate, 
that  I  should  lead  a  column  against  Arguano  — 
my  shrine,  my  Holy  Land  ! 

Mercedes  moves  swiftly  across  the  room,  and  kneeling  on  the  flag-stones 
near  Louvois's  feet  begins  to  pick  up  the  fragments  of  the  letter.  He 
suddenly  stoops  and  takes  her  by  the  wrists. 

Mercedes ! 

MERCEDES. 

Ah,   but   I   was   so   unhappy !     Was   I  un 
happy  ?       I    forget.       (Looks  up  in  his  face  and  laughs.)       It 

is  so  very  long  ago  !  An  instant  of  heaven 
would  make  one  forget  a  century  of  hell ! 
When  I  hear  your  voice,  two  years  are  as  yes 
terday.  It  was  not  I,  but  some  poor  girl  I 
used  to  know  who  was  like  to  die  for  you.  It 
was  not  I  —  I  have  never  been  anything  but 
happy.  Nay,  I  needs  must  weep  a  little  for 
her,  the  days  were  so  heavy  to  that  poor  girl. 
And  when  you  go  away  again,  as  go  you 

must  — 

LOUVOIS. 

I  shall  take  you  with  me,  Mercedes.    Do  you 
understand?     You  are  to  go  with  me  to  Bur- 


MERCEDES.  53 

gOS.    (Aside.)    What  a  blank  look  she  wears !  She 
does  not  seem  to  understand. 

MERCEDES,  abstractedly. 

With  you  to  Burgos?  I  was  there  once,  in 
the  great  cathedral,  and  saw  the  bishops  in 
their  golden  robes  and  all  the  jewelled  windows 
ablaze  in  the  sunset.  But  with  you?  Am  I 
dreaming  this  ?  The  very  room  has  grown  un 
familiar  to  me.  The  crucifix  yonder,  at  which 
I  have  knelt  a  hundred  times,  was  it  always 
there  ?  My  head  is  full  of  unwonted  visions. 
I  think  I  hear  music  and  the  sounds  of  castanets, 
like  poor  old  Ursula.  Those  cries  in  the  calle 
— is  it  a  merry-meeting  ?  Ah ! .  what  a  pain 
struck  my  heart  then  !  O  God !  I  had  forgot 
ten  !  (Clutches  his  arm  and  pushes  him  from  her.)  Have 

drunk  wine  this  day  ? 

LOUVOIS. 
Why,  Mercedes,  how  strange  you  are  ! 

MERCEDES. 

No.  no  !  have  you  drunk  wine  ? 


54  MEECEDES. 

LOUVOIS. 

Well,  yes,  a  cup  without.  What  then? 
How  white  you  are  ! 

MERCEDES. 

Quick  !  let  me  look  you  in  the  face.  I  wish 
to  tell  you  something.  You  loved  me  once 
...  it  was  in  May  .  .  .  your  wound  is  quite 
well  now  ?  No,  no,  not  that !  All  things  slip 
from  me.  Chiquita  —  Nay,  hold  me  closer,  I 
do  not  see  you.  Into  the  sunlight  —  into  the 

sunlight ! 

LOUVOIS. 

She  is  fainting ! 

MERCEDES. 

I  am  dying  —  I  am  poisoned.  The  wine  was 
drugged  for  the  French.  I  was  desperate. 
Chiquita  —  there  in  the  cradle  —  she  is  dead 

and  I (Sinks  down  at  his  feet.) 

LOUVOIS,  stooping  over  her. 

Mercedes  !  Mercedes ! 

After  an  interval  a  measured  tramp  is  heard  outside.    A  sergeant  with  a 
file  of  soldiers  in  disorder  enters  the  hut. 


MERCEDES.  55 

SCENE  V. 

SERGEANT  and  SOLDIERS. 

1st  SOLDIER. 

Behold !  he  has  killed  the  murderess. 

2d  SOLDIER. 

If  she  had  but  twenty  lives  now  ! 

3d  SOLDIER. 

That  would  not  bring  back  the  brave  Labois- 
si£re  and  the  rest. 

2d  SOLDIER. 

Sapristi,  no!  but  it  would  give  us  life  for 
life. 

4th  SOLDIER. 

Misdricorde  !  are  twenty  — 

SERGEANT. 

Hold  YOlir  peace,  all  of  yOU  !       (Advances  and  salutes 
Louvois,  who  is  hall  kneeling  beside  the  body  of  the  woman.)      My 


56  MEKCEDES. 

captain!      (Aside.)      He    does   not    answer   me. 

(Lays  his  hand  hurriedly  on  Louvois's  shoulder,  and  starts.)        Sl- 

lence,   there !    and   stand   uncovered.      He   is 
dead ! 


ON  LYNN  TERRACE,  ETC. 


ON  LYNN  TERRACE, 

ETC. 


ON  LYNN  TERRACE. 

ALL  day  to  watch    the    blue  wave  curl   and 

break, 

All  night  to  hear  it  plunging  on  the  shore  — 
In  this  sea-dream  such  draughts  of  life  I  take, 
I  cannot  ask  for  more. 

Behind  me  lie  the  idle  life  and  vain, 

The  task  unfinished,  and  the  weary  hours  ; 
That  long  wave  softly  bears  me  back  to  Spain 
And  the  Alharnbra's  towers  ! 

Once  more  I  halt  in  Andalusian  pass, 

To  list  the  mule-bells  jingling  on  the  height ; 
Below,  against  the  dull  esparto  grass, 
The  almonds  glimmer  white. 


60  ON  LYNN  TERRACE. 

Huge  gateways,  wrinkled,  with  rich  grays  and 

browns, 

Invite  my  fancy,  and  I  wander  through 
The  gable-shadowed,  zigzag  streets  of  towns 
The  world's  first  sailors  knew. 

Or,  if  I  will,  from  out  this  thin  sea-haze 
Low-lying  cliffs  of  lovely  Calais  rise ; 
Or  yonder,  with  the  pomp  of  olden  days, 
Venice  salutes  my  eyes. 

Or  some  gaunt  castle  lures  me  up  its  stair ; 
I  see,  far  off,  the  red-tiled  hamlets  shine, 
And  catch,  through  slits  of  windows  here  and 
there, 

Blue  glimpses  of  the  Rhine. 

Again  I  pass  Norwegian  fjord  and  fell, 

And  through  bleak  wastes  to  where  the  sun 
set's  fires 

Light  up  the  white-walled  Russian  citadel, 
The  Kremlin's  domes  and  spires ! 


ON  LYNN  TERRACE.  61 

And  now  I  linger  in  green  English  lanes, 

By  garden-plots  of  rose  and  heliotrope  ; 
And  now  I  face  the  sudden  pelting  rains 
On  some  lone  Alpine  slope. 

Now  at  Tangier,  among  the  packed  bazars, 
I  saunter,  and  the  merchants  at  the  doors 
Smile,  and  entice  me :  here  are  jewels  like  stars, 
And  curved  knives  of  the  Moors  ; 

Cloths  of  Damascus,  strings  of  amber  dates ; 
What  would  Howadji  .  .  .  silver,  gold,  or 

stone  ? 

Prone  on  the  sun-scorched   plain  outside  the 
gates 

The  camels  make  their  moan. 

All  this  is  mine,  as  I  lie  dreaming  here, 

High  on  the  windy  terrace,  day  by  day ; 
And  mine  the  children's  laughter,  sweet  and 
clear, 

Ringing  across  the  bay. 


62  ON   LYNN   TEKHACE. 

For  me  the  clouds  ;  the  ships  sail  by  for  me ; 

For  me  the  petulant  sea-gull  takes  its  flight ; 
And  mine  the  tender  moonrise  on  the  sea, 
And  hollow  caves  of  night ! 


THE  JEW'S   GIFT.  63 


THE  JEWS  GIFT. 

A.  D.    1200. 

THE  Abbot  willed  it,  and  it  was  done. 
They  hanged  him  high  in  an  iron  cage 
For  the  spiteful  wind  and  the  patient  sun 
To  bleach  him.     Faith,  't  was  a  cruel  age  ! 
Just  for  no  crime  they  hanged  him  there. 
When  one  is  a  Jew,  why,  one  remains 
A  Jew  to  the  end,  though  he  swing  in  air 
From  year  to  year  in  a  suit  of  chains. 

'T  was  May,  and  the  buds  into  blossom  broke, 
And  the  apple-boughs  were  pink  and  white  : 
What  grewsome  fruit  was  that  on  the  oak, 
Swaying  and  swaying  day  and  night ! 


64  THE  JEW'S   GIFT. 

The  miller,  urging  his  piebald  mare 
Over  the  cross-road,  stopped  and  leered  ; 
But  never  an  urchin  ventured  there, 
For  fear  of  the  dead-man's  long  white  beard. 

A  long  white  beard  like  carded  wool, 
Reaching  down  to  the  very  knee  — 
Of  a  proper  sort  with  which  to  pull 
A  heretic  Jew  to  the  gallows-tree  ! 
Piteous  women-folk  turned  away, 
Having  no  heart  for  such  a  thing ; 
But  the  blackbirds  on  the  alder-spray 
For  very  joy  of  it  seemed  to  sing. 

Whenever  a  monk  went  shuffling  by 

To  the  convent  over  against  the  hill, 

He  would  lift  a  pitiless  pious  eye, 

And    mutter,     "The   Abbot    but    did    God's 

will ! " 

And  the  Abbot  himself  slept  no  whit  less, 
But  rather  the  more,  for  this  his  deed  : 
And  the  May  moon  filled,  and  the  loveliness 
Of  springtide  flooded  upland  and  mead. 


65 

Then  an  odd  thing  chanced.     A  certain  clown, 
On  a  certain  morning  breaking  stone 
By  the  hill-side,  saw,  as  he  glanced  down. 
That    the    heretic's    long    white    beard   was 

gone  — 

Shaved  as  clean  and  close  as  you  choose, 
As  close  and  clean  as  his  polished  pate  ! 
Like  wildfire  spread  the  marvelous  news, 
From  the  ale-house  bench  to  the  convent  gate. 

And  the  good  folk  flocked  from  far  and  near, 
And    the   monks    trooped    down     the    rocky 

height : 

'T  was  a  miracle,  that  was  very  clear  — 
The  Devil  had  shaved  the  Israelite  ! 
Where  is  the  Abbot  ?     Quick,  go  tell ! 
Summon  him,  knave,  God's  death !  straightway ! 
The  Devil  hath  sent  his  barber  from  hell, 
Perchance  there  will  be  the  Devil  to  pay ! 

Now  a  lad  that  had  climbed  an  alder-tree, 
The  better  to  overlook  the  rest, 
Suddenly  gave  a  shout  of  glee 
At  finding  a  wondrous  blackbird-nest, 


66  THE  JEW'S  GIFT. 

Then  suddenly  flung  it  from  his  hand, 
For  lo  !  it  was  woven  of  human  hair, 
Plaited  and  braided,  strand  upon  strand  — 
No  marvel  the  heretic's  chin  was  bare  ! 

Silence  fell  upon  priest  and  clown, 

Each  stood  riveted  in  his  place  ; 

The  brat  that  tugged  at  his  mother's  gown 

Caught  the  terror  that  blanched  her  face. 

Then  one,  a  patriarch,  bent  and  gray, 

Wise  with  the  grief  of  years  fourscore, 

Picked  up  his  staff,  and  took  his  way 

By  the  mountain-path  to  the  Abbot's  door  — 

And  bravely  told  this  thing  of  the  nest, 

How  the  birds  had  never  touched   cheek   or 


But    daintily    plucked    the    fleece    from   the 

breast 

To  build  a  home  for  their  young  thereby. 
"  Surely,  if  they  were  not  afeard 
(God's  little  choristers,  free  of  guile  !) 
To  serve  themselves  of  the  Hebrew's  beard, 
It  was  that  he  was  not  wholly  vile  ! 


THE  JEW'S   GIFT.  67 

"  Perhaps  they  saw  with  their  keener  eyes 
The   grace   that   we   missed,   but  which  God 

sees : 

Ah,  but  He  reads  all  hearts  likewise, 
The  good  in  those,  and  the  guilt  in  these. 
Precious  is  mercy,  O  my  lord  ! 
Humbly  the  Abbot  bowed  his  head, 
And,  making  a  gesture  of  accord  — 
"What    would    you    have?     The    knave    is 

dead." 

"  Certes,  the  man  is  dead  !    No  doubt 
Deserved  to  die ;  as  a  Jew,  he  died ; 
But  now  he  hath  served  the  sentence  out 
(With  a  dole  or  two  thrown  in  beside), 
Suffered  all  that  he  may  of  men  — 
Why  not  earth  him,  and  no  more  words  ?  " 
The  Abbot  pondered,  and  smiled,  and  then  — 
"  Well,  well !    since  he  gave  his  beard  to  the 
birds ! " 


68 


PEPITA. 


PEPITA. 

SCARCELY  sixteen  years  old 
Is  Pepita  !     (You  understand, 
A  breath  of  this  sunny  land 

Turns  green  fruit  into  gold : 

A  maiden's  conscious  blood 

In  the  cheek  of  girlhood  glows ; 
A  bud  slips  into  a  rose 

Before  it  is  quite  a  bud  !) 

And  I  in  Seville  —  sedate, 
An  American,  with  an  eye 
For  that  strip  of  indigo  sky 

Half-glimpsed  through  a  Moorish  gate 


PEPITA.  69 

I  see  her,  sitting  up  there, 

With  tortoise-shell  comb  and  fan  ; 
Red-lipped,  but  a  trifle  wan, 

Because  of  her  coal-black  hair ; 

And  the  hair  a  trifle  dull, 
Because  of  the  eyes  beneath, 
And  the  radiance  of  her  teeth 

When  her  smile  is  at  its  full  ! 

Against  the  balcony  rail 

She  leans,  and  looks  on  the  street ; 

Her  lashes,  long  and  discreet, 
Shading  her  eyes  like  a  veil. 

Held  by  a  silver  dart, 

The  mantilla's  delicate  lace 

Falls  each  side  of  her  face 
And  crosswise  over  her  heart. 

This  is  Pepita  —  this 

Her  hour  for  taking  her  ease : 

A  lover  under  the  trees 
In  the  calle  were  not  amiss ! 


70  PEPITA. 

Well,  I  must  needs  pass  by, 

With  a  furtive  glance,  be  it  said, 
At  the  dusk  Murillo  head 

And  the  Andalusian  eye  ! 

In  the  Plaza  I  hear  the  sounds 
Of  guitar  and  castanet ; 
Although  it  is  early  yet, 

The  dancers  are  on  their  rounds. 

Softly  the  sunlight  falls 
On  the  slim  Giralda  tower, 
That  now  peals  forth  the  hour 

O'er  broken  ramparts  and  walls. 

Ah,  what  glory  and  gloom 
In  this  Arab-Spanish  town ! 
What  masonry,  golden-brown, 

And  hung  with  tendril  and  bloom  ! 

Place  of  forgotten  kings  !  — 
With  fountains  that  never  play, 
And  gardens  where  day  by  day 

The  lonely  cicada  sings ! 


PEPITA.  71 

Traces  are  everywhere 

Of  the  dusky  race  that  came, 
And  passed,  like  a  sudden  flame, 

Leaving  their  sighs  in  the  air ! 

Taken  with  things  like  these, 
Pepita  fades  out  of  my  mind  : 
Pleasure  enough  I  find 

In  Moorish  column  and  frieze. 

And  yet  I  have  my  fears, 

If  this  had  been  long  ago, 

I  might  .  .  .  well,  I  do  not  know  .  .  . 
She  with  her  sixteen  years  ! 


72  BAYARD  TAYLOK. 


BAYARD   TAYLOR. 

IN  other  years  —  lost  youth's  enchanted  years, 
Seen   now,    and    evermore,    through   blinding 

tears 

And  empty  longing  for  what  may  not  be  — 
The  Desert  gave  him  back  to  us ;  the  Sea 
Yielded  him  up  ;  the  icy  Norland  strand 
Lured  him  not  long,  nor  that  soft  German  air 
He  loved  could  keep  him.     Ever  his  own  land 
Fettered   his    heart    and    brought   him   back 

again. 

What  sounds  are  these  of  farewell  and  despair 
Blown  by  the  winds  across  the  wintry  main  ! 
What  unknown  way  is  this  that  he  has  gone, 
Our  Bayard,  in  such  silence  and  alone  ? 
What  new  strange  quest  has  tempted  him  once 

more 
To  leave  us  ?  Vainly,  standing  by  the  shore, 


BAYARD  TAYLOR.  73 

We  strain  our  eyes.    But  patience  !  .  .  .  when 

the  soft 

Spring  gales  are  blowing  over  Cedarcroft, 
Whitening   the    hawthorn ;   when  the   violets 

bloom 

Along  the  Brandywine,  and  overhead 
The  sky  is  blue  as  Italy's  —  he  will  come  ! 
Ay,  he  will  come  !     To  us  he  is  not  dead. 


INTAGLIOS. 


INTAGLIOS. 


INTAGLIOS. 

BY  the  chance  turning  of  a  spade 

In  Roman  earth,  to  view  are  laid 

Bits  of  carnelian,  bronze  and  gold, 

Laboriously  carved  of  old — 

Sleek  Bacchus  with  his  leaves  and  grapes  ; 

Bow-bending  Centaurs ;  Gorgon  shapes  ; 

Pallas  Athene  helmeted ; 

Some  grim,  forgotten  emperor's  head.  .  .  . 

This  one,  most  precious  for  its  make, 

That  other,  for  the  metal's  sake. 

A  touch  —  and  lo  !  are  brought  to  light 
Fancies  long  buried  out  of  sight 
In  hearts  of  poets  .  .  .  bits  of  rhyme 
Fashioned  in  some  forgotten  time 


78  INTAGLIOS. 

And  thrown  aside,  but,  found  to-day, 
Have  each  a  value  in  its  way  .  .  . 
This,  for  the  skill  with  which  't  is  wrought, 
That,  for  the  pathos  of  its  thought. 


EPICS  AND   LYRICS.  79 


EPICS  AND  LYRICS. 

I  WOULD  be  the  Lyric 

Ever  on  the  lip, 
Rather  than  the  Epic 

Memory  lets  slip ! 
I  would  be  the  diamond 

At  my  lady's  ear, 
Rather  than  the  June-rose 

Worn  but  once  a  year  ! 


80  INTAGLIOS. 


HEREDITY. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Cromwell  stamp, 
With  sword  and  psalm-book  by  his  side, 
At  home  alike  in  church  and  camp : 
Austere  he  lived,  and  smileless  died. 

But  she,  a  creature  soft  and  fine  — 
From  Spain,  some  say,  some  say  from  France 
Within  her  veins  leapt  blood  like  wine  — 
She  led  her  Roundhead  lord  a  dance ! 

In  Grantham  church  they  lie  asleep ; 
Just  where,  the  verger  may  not  know. 
Strange  that  two  hundred  years  should  keep 
The  old  ancestral  fires  aglow  ! 


HEREDITY.  81 

In  me  these  two  have  met  again  ; 
To  each  my  nature  owes  a  part : 
To  one,  the  cool  and  reasoning  brain  ; 
To  one,  the  quick,  unreasoning  heart. 


82  INTAGLIOS. 


MYRTILLA. 

IN   THE  MANNER  OF  A.   D.   1700. 

THIS  is  the  difference,  neither  more  nor  less, 

Between  Medusa's  and  Myrtilla's  face  : 
The  former  slays  us  with  its  awfulness, 
The  latter  with  its  grace. 

ON  HER  BLUSHING. 

Now  the  red  wins  upon  her  cheek ; 

Now  white  with  crimson  closes 
In  desperate  struggle  —  so  to  speak, 
A  War  of  Roses  I 


ONE  WOMAN.  83 


ONE  WOMAN. 

THOU  listenest  to  us  with  unlistening  ear ; 
Alike  to  thee  our  censure  and  our  praise : 
Thou  hearest  voices  that  we  may  not  hear ; 
Thou  livest  only  in  thy  yesterdays ! 

We  see  thee  move,  erect  and  pale  and  brave  : 
Soft  words  are  thine,  sweet  deeds,  and  gra 
cious  will ; 

Yet  thou  art  dead  as  any  in  the  grave  — 
Only  thy  presence  lingers  with  us  still. 

With  others,  joy  and  sorrow  seem  to  slip 
Like  light  and  shade,  and  laughter  kills  re 
gret  : 

But  thou  —  the  fugitive  tremor  of  thy  lip 
Lays  bare  thy  secret  —  thou  canst  not  forget ! 


84  INTAGLIOS. 


PRESCIENCE. 

THE  new  moon  hung  in  the  sky,  the  sun  was 

low  in  the  west, 
And  my  betrothed  and  I  in  the  church-yard 

paused  to  rest  — 
Happy  maiden  and   lover,  dreaming   the   old 

dream  over : 
The    light    winds    wandered    by,  and    robins 

chirped  from  the  nest. 

And  lo !  in  the  meadow-sweet  was  the  grave 

of  a  little  child, 
With  a  crumbling  stone  at  the  feet  and  the  ivy 

running  wild  — 
Tangled  ivy   and  clover  folding  it  over  and 

over : 
Close  to  my  sweetheart's  feet  was  the  little 

mound  up-piled. 


PRESCIENCE.  85 

Stricken  with  nameless  fears,  she  shrank  and 
clung  to  me, 

And  her  eyes  were  filled  with  tears  for  a  sor 
row  I  did  not  see  : 

Lightly  the  winds  were  blowing,  softly  her 
tears  were  flowing  — 

Tears  for  the  unknown  years  and  a  sorrow  that 
was  to  be ! 


86  INTAGLIOS. 


EPIGRAM. 


ON  A  VOLUME  OF  ANONYMOUS  POEMS  ENTITLED  A  MASQUE 
OF  POETS. 


VAIN  is  the  mask.     Who  cannot  at  desire 
Name  every  Singer  in  the  hidden  choir  ? 
That  is  a  thin  disguise  which  veils  with  care 
The  face,  but   lets   the   changeless   heart   lie 
bare. 


A  PREACHER.  87 


A  PREACHER. 

THUS  spake  the  Preacher :    "  O,  my  friends, 

beware  ! 
How   ever   smooth    and   tempting   seems   the 

path, 
With  bowers   of    cooling   shade,   the   end  is 

wrath : 
Here   't  is   unsafe,   that  's    dangerous   footing 

there ; 

But  follow  me  and  have  no  further  care ; 
Make  me  your  guide,  for  I  am  one  that  hath 
Lived  long  and  gathered  in  life's  aftermath  — 
Experience.     I  bid  you  not  despair. 
Reach  me  your  hands  and  cast  away  all  doubt ; 
I  '11  lead  you  safe  along  the  glacier's  shelf : 
You  say  't  is  dark  ?  'T  is  noon-day,  I  insist ; 


88  INTAGLIOS. 

Besides,  I  know  each  pitfall  hereabout, 
I  know  each  chasm  "  —  just  then  the  Preach 
er's  self 
Stumbled  and  plunged  into  eternal  mist. 


COMEDY.  89 


COMEDY. 

THEY  parted,  with  clasps  of  hand, 
And  kisses,  and  burning  tears. 
They  met.  in  a  foreign  land, 
After  some  twenty  years : 

Met  as  acquaintances  meet, 
Smilingly,  tranquil-eyed  — 
Not  even  the  least  little  beat 
Of  the  heart,  upon  either  side  ! 

They  chatted  of  this  and  that, 
The  nothings  that  make  up  life  ; 
She  in  a  Gainsborough  hat, 
And  he  in  black  for  his  wife. 


90  INTAGLIOS. 

Ah,  what  a  comedy  this  ! 
Neither  was  hurt,  it  appears : 
Yet  once  she  had  leaned  to  his  kiss, 
And  once  he  had  known  her  tears  I 


KBISS  KBINGLE.  91 


KRISS   KRINGLE. 

JUST  as  the  moon  was  fading  amid  her  misty 

rings, 

And  every  stocking   was   stuffed   with   child 
hood's  precious  things, 
Old  Kriss  Kringle  looked  round,  and  saw  on 

the  elm-tree  bough, 
High-hung,  an  oriole's  nest,  lonely  and  empty 

now. 
"  Quite  like  a  stocking,"  he  laughed,  "  pinned 

up  there  on  the  tree  ! 
I  did  n't  suppose  the  birds  expected  a  present 

from  me ! " 
Then  old  Kriss  Kringle,  who  loves  a  joke  as 

well  as  the  best, 
Dropped   a   handful   of  flakes  in  the  oriole's 

empty  nest. 


92  INTAGLIOS. 


DISCIPLINE. 

IN  the  crypt  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
They  lay  there,  a  score  of  the  Dead : 
They  could  hear  the  priest  at  his  prayers, 
And  the  litany  overhead. 

They  knew  when  the  great  crowd  stirred 
As  the  Host  was  lifted  on  high  ; 
And  they  smiled  in  the  dark  when  they  heard 
Some  light-footed  nun  trip  by. 

Side  by  side  on  their  shelves 

For  years  and  years  they  lay ; 

And  those  who  misbehaved  themselves 

Had  their  coffin-plates  taken  away. 


DISCIPLINE.  93 

Thus  is  the  legend  told 
In  black-letter  monkish  rhyme, 
Explaining  those  plaques  of  gold 
That  vanished  from  time  to  time  ! 


94  INTAGLIOS. 


APPRECIATION. 

To  the  sea-shell's  spiral  round 
'T  is  your  heart  that  brings  the  sound 
The  soft  sea-murmurs  that  you  hear 
Within,  are  captured  from  your  ear. 

You  do  poets  and  their  song 

A  grievous  wrong, 

If  your  own  soul  does  not  bring 

To  their  high  imagining 

As  much  beauty  as  they  sing. 


THE   VOICE   OF   THE  SEA.  95 


THE  VOICE  OF   THE  SEA. 

Ix  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 
I  hear  the  voice  of  the  sea, 
In  the  hush  of  the  autumn  night 
It  seems  to  say  to  me  — 
Mine  are  the  winds  above, 
Mine  are  the  caves  below, 
Mine  are  the  dead  of  yesterday 
And  the  dead  of  long  ago  ! 

And  I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 
From  the  lovely  Gloucester  shore, 
I  think  of  the  fleet  that  sailed 
And  came  back  nevermore  ! 


96  INTAGLIOS. 

My  eyes  are  filled  with  tears, 
And  my  heart  is  numb  with  woe  — 
It  seems  as  if  't  were  yesterday, 
And  it  all  was  long  ago ! 


KNOWLEDGE.  97 


KNOWLEDGE. 

KNOWLEDGE  —  who  hath  it  ?     Nay,  not  thou, 
Pale  student,  pondering  thy  futile  lore  ! 
A  little  space  it  shall  be  thine,  as  now 
'T  is  his  whose  funeral  passes  at  thy  door : 
Last   night   a   clown   that    scarcely   knew   to 

spell  — 
Now  he  knows  all.     O  wondrous  miracle  ! 


98  INTAGLIOS. 


IN  THE  BELFRY  OF  THE  NIEUWE 
KERK. 

(AMSTERDAM.) 

NOT  a  breath  in  the  stifled,  dingy  street ! 

On  the  Stadhuis  tiles  the  sun's  strong  glow 

Lies  like  a  kind  of  golden  snow. 

In  the  square  one  almost  sees  the  heat. 

The  mottled  tulips  over  there 

By  the  open  casement  pant  for  air. 

Grave,  portly  burghers,  with  their  vrouws, 

Go  hat  in  hand  to  cool  their  brows. 

But  high  in  the  fretted  steeple,  where 
The  sudden  chimes  burst  forth  and  scare 
The  lazy  rooks  from  the  belfry  beam, 
And  the  ring-doves  as  they  coo  and  dream 


IN  THE   BELFRY  OF   THE  NIEUWE   KERK.     99 

On  flying-buttress  or  carven  rose  — 
Up  here,  mein  Grott !  a  tempest  blows  !  — 
Such  a  wind  as  bends  the  forest  tree, 
And  rocks  the  great  ships  out  at  sea. 

Plain  simple  folk,  who  come  and  go 
On  humble  levels  of  life  below, 
Little  dream  of  the  gales  that  smite 
Mortals  dwelling  upon  the  height ! 


100  INTAGLIOS. 


APPARITIONS. 

AT  noon  of  night,  and  at  the  night's  pale  end, 

Such  things  have  chanced  to  me 
As  one,  by  day,  would  scarcely  tell  a  friend 

For  fear  of  mockery. 

Shadows,  you  say,  mirages  of  the  brain  ! 

I  know  not,  faith,  not  I. 
Is  it  more  strange  the  dead  should  walk  again 

Than  that  the  quick  should  die  ? 


REALISM.  101 


REALISM. 

ROMANCE,  beside  his  unstrung  lute, 

Lies  stricken  mute. 
The  old-time  fire,  the  antique  grace, 
You  will  not  find  them  anywhere. 
To-day  we  breathe  a  commonplace, 
Polemic,  scientific  air : 
We  strip  Illusion  of  her  veil ; 
We  vivisect  the  nightingale 
To  probe  the  secret  of  his  note. 
The  Muse  in  alien  ways  remote 

Goes  wandering. 


102  INTAGLIOS. 


THE  BELLS   AT  MIDNIGHT. 

SEPTEMBER    19,  1881. 

In  their  dark  House  of  Cloud 
The  three  weird  sisters  toil  till  time  be  sped. 


CLOTHO. 

How  long,  O  sister,  how  long 
Ere  the  weary  task  is  done  ? 
How  long,  O  sister,  how  long 
Shall  the  fragile  thread  be  spun  ? 

LACHESIS. 

'Tis  mercy  that  stays  her  hand, 
Else  she  had  cut  the  thread ; 
She  is  a  woman  too, 
Like  her  who  kneels  by  his  bed  ! 


THE  BELLS   AT  MIDNIGHT.  103 

ATROPOS. 

Patience  !  the  end  is  come  ; 
He  shall  DO  more  endure : 
See  !  with  a  single  touch !  — 
My  hand  is  swift  and  sure  ! 


II. 

FIRST  ANGEL. 

Listen  !  what  was  it  fell 
An  instant  since  on  my  ear  — 
A  sound  like  the  throb  of  a  bell 
From  yonder  darkling  sphere  ! 

SECOND  ANGEL 

The  planet  where  mortals  dwell ! 
I  hear  it  not  ....  nay,  I  hear  I 
A  sound  of  sorrow  and  dole  ! 

FIRST  ANGEL. 

Listen  !     It  is  the  knell 


104  INTAGLIOS. 

Of  a  passing  soul !  — 
The  midnight  lamentation 
Of  a  stricken  Nation 
For  its  Chieftain's  soul ! 


EPILOGUE. 


EPILOGUE. 


AT  TWOSCORE. 

THE  leafless  branches  snap  with  cold  ; 
The  night  is  still,  the  winds  are  laid ; 
And  you  are  sitting,  as  of  old, 
Beside  my  hearth-stone,  heavenly  maid ! 
What  would  have  chanced  me  all  these  years, 
As  boy  and  man,  had  you  not  come 
And  brought  me  gifts  of  smiles  and  tears 
From  your  Olympian  home  ? 

"  The  blackest  cloud  that  ever  lowers," 
You  sang  when  I  was  most  forlorn, 
"  If  we  but  watch  some  patient  hours, 
Takes  silver  edges  from  the  morn." 
Thanks  for  the  lesson  ;  thanks  for  all, 
Not  only  for  ambrosia  brought, 


108  EPILOGUE. 

But  for  those  drops  which  fell  like  gall 
Into  the  cup  of  thought. 

Dear  Muse,  't  is  twenty  years  or  more 

Since  that  enchanted,  fairy  time 

When  you  came  tapping  at  my  door, 

Your  reticule  stuffed  full  of  rhyme. 

What  strange  things  have  befallen,  indeed, 

Since  then !  Who  has  the  time  to  say 

What    bards    have    flowered    (and    gone    to 

seed)  — 
Immortal  for  a  day  ! 

We  've  seen  Pretense  with  cross  and  crown, 
And  Folly  caught  in  self-spun  toils  ; 
Merit  content  to  pass  unknown, 
And  Honor  scorning  public  spoils  — 
Seen  Bottom  wield  the  critic's  pen 
While  Ariel  sang  in  sun-lit  cloud : 
Sometimes  we  wept,  and  now  and  then 
We  could  but  laugh  aloud. 

And  once  we  saw  —  ah,  day  of  woe  !  — 
The  lurid  fires  of  civil  war, 


AT  TWOSCOBE.  109 

The  blue  and  gray  frocks  laid  a-row, 
And  many  a  name  rise  like  a  star 
To  shine  in  splendor  evermore. 
The  fiery  flood  swept  hill  and  plain, 
But  clear  above  the  battle's  roar 

Rang  slavery's  falling  chain. 

With  pilgrim  staff  and  sandal-shoon, 

One  time  we  sought  the  Old-World  shrines  : 

Saw  Venice  lying  in  the  moon, 

The  Jungfrau  and  the  Apennines  ; 

Beheld  the  Tiber  rolling  dark, 

Rent  temples,  fanes,  and  gods  austere  ; 

In  English  meadows  heard  the  lark 

That  charmed  her  Shakspeare's  ear. 

What  dreams  and  visions  we  have  had, 
What  tempests  we  have  weathered  through ! 
Been  rich  and  poor,  and  gay  and  sad, 
But  never  hopeless  —  thanks  to  you. 
A  draught  of  water  from  the  brook, 
Or  alt  hochheimer  —  it  was  one  ; 
Whatever  fortune  fell  we  took, 

Children  of  shade  and  sun. 


110  EPILOGUE. 

Though  lacking  gold,  we  never  stooped 

To  pick  it  up  in  all  our  days ; 

Though  lacking  praise  we  sometimes  drooped, 

We  never  asked  a  soul  for  praise. 

The  exquisite  reward  of  song 

Was  song  —  the  self-same  thrill  and  glow 

Which  to  unfolding  flowers  belong, 

And  wrens  and  thrushes  know ! 

I  tried  you  once  —  the  day  I  wed  : 
Dear  Muse,  do  you  remember  how 
You  rose  in  haste,  and  turned  and  fled, 
With  sudden-knitted,  scornful  brow? 
But  you  relented,  smiled,  at  last 
Returned,  and,  with  your  tears  half  dried, 
"  Ah  well,  she  cannot  take  the  Past, 
Though  she  have  all  beside !  " 

What  gilt-winged  hopes  have  taken  flight, 
And  dropped,  like  Icarus,  in  mid-sky  ! 
What  cloudy  days  have  turned  to  bright ! 
What  fateful  years  have  glided  by ! 
What  lips  we  loved  vain  memory  seeks  ! 
What  hands  are  cold  that  once  pressed  ours ! 


AT  TWOSCOBE.  Ill 

What  lashes  rest  upon  the  cheeks 

Beneath  the  snows  and  flowers ! 

We  would  not  wish  them  back  again  ; 
The  way  is  rude  from  here  to  there : 
For  us,  the  short-lived  joy  and  pain, 
For  them,  the  endless  rest  from  care, 
The  crown,  the  palm,  the  deathless  youth : 
We  would  not  wish  them  back  —  ah,  no ! 
And  as  for  us,  dear  Muse,  in  truth, 
We  Ve  but  half  way  to  go. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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